


you got me for nothin'

by themadnutter



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Canon Compliant, Consensual, Hair-pulling, M/M, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-22
Updated: 2018-05-22
Packaged: 2019-05-10 01:29:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14727401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themadnutter/pseuds/themadnutter
Summary: "After brunch, I'm going toruinyou," Jerome murmurs, teeth catching on Oswald's ear, making him gasp, an electric surge that shoots all the way down to his toes.





	you got me for nothin'

**Author's Note:**

> 4x17 fic. title taken from lykke li's "jerome", bc obvious reasons

Hosting this brunch, Oswald knows, is a mistake.  Allowing the ragtag group of villains to live in his house for the foreseeable future is an even bigger one, and his stomach twists into knots of regret, sours his tongue like old milk.

But mistake or not, it doesn’t change the fact that he is playing host for Gotham’s most horrible.  And like any event, Oswald only dresses to _impress_.

He's adding the finishing touches to his hair (carefully applying hair spray, making sure his purple streak shines and is perfectly visible) when he hears a ruckus down the hallway, clomping feet and grating voices. _Guests._ Lips thinning, Oswald focuses on his task and tries to ignore the beginnings of a headache that pulses between his eyes.

Finishing the day’s look with a quick swipe of subtle lipstick and splash of cologne, Oswald shrugs on one of his finest fur coats and preens, confidence skyrocketing like magic.  With one last touch to his hair, he opens the bathroom door when he's done to let the smell of product air out - another in a long line of mistakes, because there's Jerome walking by, stopping when he sees the open door. Oswald resolutely doesn't make eye contact, keeping his eyes trained on his reflection, but he can _feel_ Jerome's approving, roving eyes as he whistles lowly.

"Looking good, Mr. Oswald," Jerome chirps, and it sounds so genuine that Oswald breaks his own rule and turns his head just enough to see Jerome. He's met with Jerome's unnaturally wide grin and flash of teeth before he walks out of Oswald's line of view.

Looking back to the mirror, Oswald studies his reflection: kohl eyeliner, curled eyelashes, styled hair, soft fur tickling his pale neck. He does look good, and Oswald tries to convince himself that pride is the reason his cheeks flush.

Heat prickles his neck, and he slams his bathroom door with more force than necessary.

\--

He graces the group with his presence minutes later, his head high and gait confident, scanning the crowd with a cool, distant eye. Freeze and Firefly are already side-eyeing each other, and Scarecrow is plucking at his shabby 'outfit' while staring off at a wall. Oswald forces himself to smile, even as he dreams of how sweet the release of death would feel right about now.

He's almost waddled to the kitchen (he's sure Jerome's "employees" are making a mess) when Jerome catches him by the elbow. With a squawk, Oswald half-turns, indignant words at the ready, but Jerome’s quicker, leans in, lips brushing the shell of Oswald's ear.

"After brunch, I'm going to _ruin_ you," Jerome murmurs, teeth catching on Oswald's ear, making him gasp, an electric surge that shoots all the way down to his toes.

Jerome squeezes Oswald's arm, spins and prances over to Scarecrow like an overgrown puppy, leaving Oswald frozen in place, stomach aflutter from heady anticipation and the beginning threads of hunger. He rubs at his red ears, steadies himself with a deep breath.

Jerome catches Oswald's eye over Scarecrow's shoulder, shoots him a wink. Oswald sniffs, nose to the air, even as every nerve ending catches in flame like kindle wood, bursts of red hot sparks that crackle in the air.

Mistakes are an old friend of his by now, but he still manages to be surprised at the graves he digs for himself.

\--

Brunch shifts between painfully uncomfortable and morbidly interesting, and Oswald plays his part of gracious host to the best of his ability - and he’s _always_ been able to work a crowd, no matter the audience.

But then Jerome’s eyes linger a second too long, his tongue flicking against the rim of his glass, and Oswald lowers his gaze, prodding his uneaten eggs with rapt attention.

Jerome laughs, an abrupt, harsh ruckus that interrupts what Scarecrow is saying about some kind of new toxin.  No one asks what’s funny.

Oswald takes a deep breath, counts to ten, and wills his blush to fade.

\--

After brunch, the group parts ways: Freeze stalks to one of the empty rooms without so much as a goodbye, Firefly makes herself comfortable on Oswald’s couch, and Scarecrow murmurs something about a basement and sulks off.  Jerome lingers at the table, and Oswald feigns a polite smile and excuses himself; he feels Jerome’s eyes on him the entire time, but he refuses to look over his shoulder and give Jerome that satisfaction.

Padding into the safety of his room, Oswald shuts the door behind him with a heavy thud, and he moves to lock the three deadbolts across his door - but his hand hovers over the metal instead, gloved finger tips trembling.  

He should lock it.  He knows who is coming for him.

He should, but he remembers Jerome’s cheerful compliment juxtaposed with his sultry promise of pleasure, and Oswald figures one more mistake in today’s book can’t be all that bad.

\--

Jerome swoops in like some kind of dashing, nightmare-inducing prince, all predatory glee and joyful, sadistic hunger that he wears like paint, dripping reds and blues.  Oswald doesn’t say anything, just sits on his bed, tilts his head to the side. _Show me what you’ve got._

For all Jerome’s hints at ruin, he’s in a surprisingly tender mood.  Oswald chalks it up to the brunch being a success, because there’s no other reason why Jerome would kiss him so deep and sweet, leaving Oswald a molten mess at Jerome’s feet, begging for _another, kiss me again_ until his lips ache.  As to be expected, there is pain interwoven in Jerome’s generosity, sharp bites to Oswald’s neck that make him groan deep in his throat, hands clutching Jerome’s clothes like he’s the only one keeping him grounded.  Oswald savors every bloom of pain and pleasure, a bouquet of sensory overload that has him seeing stars, and he surrenders himself to Jerome’s devouring hands, his slick tongue spelling possession across Oswald’s neck and collarbone.

Jerome undresses in a hurry, throwing his clothes behind him without care.  He claws off Oswald’s coat, coos _pretty bird_ in Oswald’s ear just to get him to blush, laughs when he’s successful. Oswald summons his courage, trembling hands undoing his shirt and pants, and Jerome smiles like a wolf, lips slick and tongue curled behind his teeth.  

There’s no preamble to Jerome’s next move - he simply pushes Oswald backward onto the bed with a _whump_ , and Oswald lies spread across his fur coat, panting open-mouthed as Jerome crawls up his body, biting his ribs, clawing the soft skin of his stomach until he leaves welts, momentos that Oswald will later retrace, again and again.  It’s all so much: the painful affection of Jerome above, the soft caress of the fur beneath him, and it isn’t until Jerome licks away a tear that he realizes he’s crying, mumbing nonsensical words. _I want, I want, I want._

“Baby,” Jerome croons, slicking his fingers, “I _know_.”

Just Jerome’s fingers feel like heaven divine, a heated fullness in Oswald’s most hidden places.  He cries out to the ceiling, shoves down on Jerome’s fingers to draw him in deeper, so far gone he can’t even feel ashamed when Jerome laughs, says _that’s it, just let go._

It’s over as soon as it starts, and Oswald whines when Jerome withdraws his fingers, dusky hole fluttering around an aching nothingness.  There’s the wet sound of Jerome slicking up his cock, his slashed lips dragging across Oswald’s own ignored cock, teeth sinking into Oswald’s inner thigh until he screams from the blissful pain.

Nudging against Oswald’s hole, Jerome grabs a fistful of Oswald’s hair, fingers tight in the purple strands, and slides in hard, maybe too hard, but Oswald babbles words of gratitude.  Jerome presses a faux-sweet kiss to Oswald’s lips, almost chaste, growls out _hold on, sweetheart._

Each snap of Jerome’s hips drives Oswald deeper into his fur coat and the mattress, a luxurious fuck he doesn’t deserve, but that Jerome gives him anyway.  Jerome’s hand is tight in Oswald’s hair, breath heavy at his ear and neck, teeth nipping and sinking in like a beast keeping its mate in place, and Oswald can’t remember ever feeling more turned on and more wanted in his life.  The pace alternates between near brutal and slow, each drag of Jerome’s cock against his prostate making Oswald quake, body a taut instrument that Jerome plays beautifully. All he can do is claw down Jerome’s shoulders and back, groan his pleasure against his own arm, against Jerome’s sweat-slick neck, try to stay afloat when Jerome’s pistoning hips make him want to drown.  

Legs trembling against Jerome’s body, Oswald can feel himself near completion, so close to the precipice he can almost taste it - but it’s not quite _enough,_ and he bites his lip until he bleeds, keening so loud all the other rogues must hear him beg for it, _harder, more, please, please, Jerome._

Jerome pulls Oswald’s hair hard enough to rip out strands, bites Oswald’s cheek and snarls, _come for me._

Oswald’s back arches, and he paints his stomach with a victorious howl.

\--

Jerome lingers.  It isn’t what Oswald expected.

Their foreheads press together as Jerome comes down from the force of his own orgasm, soft cock sliding out of Oswald’s puffy hole.  Oswald allows the contact, even as his body feels the repercussions of their rough coupling: he aches all over, each lovebite stinging, his bad leg beginning to cramp.

Then Jerome is shifting back, propped up on his knees, grinning down at Oswald with red, red lips (he doesn’t know whose blood Jerome wears).

“Mr. Oswald, aren’t you a sight,” Jerome crows, pleased.

Oswald sniffles, pawing at his own cheek, sighing when his hand comes back covered in smudged makeup and snot.

“You did promise to ruin me,” Oswald reminds, his sigh not all that irritated.

“Mmm,” Jerome hums, tilts his head each way to crack his neck. “You wear ruin well.”

It’s a ridiculous sentiment, but Oswald’s high on emotion and foggy pleasure, so he can’t be blamed when he laughs, smears the makeup on his other cheek with his hand.

“It’s nice,” he admits.

There’s an interested spark to Jerome’s gaze, a look that makes him appear so much younger, a flash to the curious child he must have once been.

Jerome doesn’t pry.  He just leans in, presses a playful kiss to Oswald’s nose, and bounces off the bed.

“Later, Mr. Oswald.”

Oswald rests an arm across his sweaty forehead, his bangs askew, and considers _later_ , other times where they may ruin each other, and rebuild again, as they always seem to do.

“Later, Mr. Valeska.”

 


End file.
